When I return to the cabin, our dog runs to greet me. 
Separated for nine months—long enough to bring new life 
into the world—I pat his head but don’t hug you. I don’t want you 

to move to the mountains, you say. Let’s take a walk. But halfway 
to the road, I notice dead branches on the dogwoods and stop 
to snap them. You break the bigger boughs until there’s a gap 

through the thicket. Then we move to the pines, breaking brittle 
limbs with dry, brown needles, our hands sticky with sap. Our dog
is bored with us and retreats to the porch while we labor until it’s too

hot to continue. Enough wood for a bonfire, I say, recalling the night
we torched a dead Christmas tree, drinking white wine and dancing 
around the leaping blaze and the dark morning I burned your love 

letters in a metal trash can outside, drunk and weeping, liar! liar!
liar! as your false words folded into flames. You laugh, crack the last 
branch from the trunk, and say, You always loved playing with fire.